


A Peculiar Waltz

by literarytonguetied



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dave drinks until drunk thats the thing that happens, Incest, M/M, inebriation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literarytonguetied/pseuds/literarytonguetied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ask box fill from some time ago: Alpha Stridercest first kiss.</p><p>Dirk measures it in threes, from the first time he slips up to the first time Dave brings it up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Peculiar Waltz

The door bangs against the wall when he enters the apartment, and though it scares you shitless, it’s a really welcome sound. You haven’t seen much of Dave for the last few months because of editing and screening and more editing and some stupid strike or something you don’t know. It means that he comes home late and leaves early and is constantly too fucking exhausted to deal with you and your obsessive compulsivities, which you get because who the hell would want to deal with that in the first place, it’s a wonder Jake even put up with you for as long as he did even though he was a massive dick about it. 

Water under the bridge.

Anyway. You pad into the family room to find Dave hunched over the kitchen counter, probably scarfing down a strawberry poptart because that’s what he always does after a movie is done. 

"Hey, li’l man," and he spews crumbs everywhere as he greets you with a half-full mouth.

"Gross," he laughs at your scrunched face.

"You love it." He smiles easily with you, and you used to think it was weird that you got all these bright smiles with teeth and cheek since you never see it outside the apartment. Only you get his smiles, and you like to think they’re saved for you since he gives the cameras and reporters and flashbulbs only a wicked little smirk or a completely straight face. 

"You okay, dude?" You don’t startle but your heart does beat into double time.

A scoff, “You’ve caught me; I’m all twitterpated, my heart thundering at the sight of my long lost brother, embrace me dearest hermano, for I have missed you greatly." 

Neither of you move, but he does give you a look. “You mixed Bambi with Spanish with old Elven talk or some shit." 

"And?" 

"Usually you save that shit for when you’re too exhausted to stand."

"I’m touched that you pay such close attention to me." You move into the kitchen to rifle through the refrigerator for an orange soda. 

"I am pretty good at it. I also know your favorite color is orange."

You gasp, “But how could you? No one knows that!" The two of you share a laugh and he pats you on the back. It’s warm where he touched and you hate yourself a little bit.

"It’s good to see you, kiddo."

"You still came home every night."

"You know what I mean." 

You nod sagely, taking a slow sip and looking at him over the top of the can. His hair is mussed, it must have been more stressful than usual, he only resorts to running a hand through his hair when he’s really working over something.

"You wanna watch a movie or some shit?"

"No movies for the next seven years." He fishes another poptart package out and goes to town on it.

"Why don’t you do what every other adult male does after a stressful day at work and get wasted?" You ask it into the can, almost embarrassed, and you hate yourself a little more.

"Dirk Latifa Strider, are you trying to get me drunk? I am a lady, it will take more than taquila to open these legs." 

"Bitch please."

He throws the rest of the poptart at you and you let out a cry about crumbs in your hair.

—-

The two of you settle down on the futon together with a controller each, the glitchy graphics of the newest Tony Hawk fuckery catching your attention.

Dave had taken your advice, and by beer three he was already losing hand-eye coordination.

"You are such a fucking light-weight."

"Get off my nuts, you’re the one who told me to unwind."

"I thought unwinding would take like five beers not two and a half."

"Excuse me for not being Rose, I don’t make it a point to be known as the Hollywood Lush, thanks." 

"Yeah, I know, you’d much rather prefer to be known as Hollywood’s biggest sexual conundrum. Is it girls? Guys? Neither? Both? At the same time?!" You raise your voice into a shitty falsetto and it gets a laugh out of him.

"What the fuck is going on with him and well known lush author, Rose Lalonde?" His falsetto matches yours and you’re both laughing quietly. 

"Your entire documentary concerning your writing and directing career will all come down to the single question: What the fuck is going on in your pants?"

He dips his voice down to mimic a voice-over, “The world may never know." 

The side of your screen glitches and you declare yourself winner, though it’s nearly drowned out by Dave’s groan of defeat. 

—-

He’s on beer six, and sufficiently sloshed. 

You feel like shit, but an opportunity like this isn’t going to happen again.

"Dave," and your voice sounds smaller than you’re used to and it surprises you a bit.

He groans an approximation of your name before swiveling his head in your direction. 

"I love you," and he laughs because no fucking duh you love him he’s the most loveable guy in Hollywood, and returns your affections with a drunken slur.

"No, Dave," and you chance straddling him. You can see the confusion in his face, the way his eyebrows are pitched up and the corner of his mouth dips slightly down. “I love you," you try again, and reach for his glasses. He moves his hand like he wants to stop you, but just can’t get it to move correctly. 

His eyes are wide, clear, and it startles you. You remove your own glasses and it worries you what he sees there. You gulp, and his eyes flicker down to catch the movement. Your hands on his shoulders, your knees on either side of his hips. He hasn’t moved to hold you or push you away, so you figure either he’s too drunk to actually get what’s going on or… 

Or what?

That he’s okay with this? 

Jesus christ you are so fucked.

You steel your nerves, scrunch your eyebrows and it worries you that your expression nearly matches his, before you lean down and kiss him.

Or try to. To be honest you haven’t really kissed anyone, and Jake doesn’t count because there had to be way too much teeth to actually consider that kissing and okay no you are not going to think about Jake while you are making out with your brother.

Tonight is self-hatred night, it’s officially a thing. 

You feel his arm move and you’re quick to move back, off his lap, away. Maybe he won’t remember this in the morning, maybe you can write it off as some weird-ass dream brought on by too much stress and having to look at shitty CGI to make jpeg come alive on the silver screen. 

You swallow again, a little dismayed that you were too wrapped up in your own head to actually really feel what it was like to kiss him. 

You are winning at self-hatred bingo, no one can self-hate more than you, you are self-hatred king and your hair is fabulous enough to be your crown. 

He’s still staring at you, though, even as you stand at the far end of the room, glasses fucking left next to him instead of brought with you because you are a stupid fucking sentimentalist.

But not enough of one to try this when he’s sober.

Fuck that noise.

You think he tries to say your name, but his tongue is heavy and you can see him struggle and you abscond the fuck out of there before anything else can be said.

You don’t need to hear how fucked up you are.

—-

It’s been three days. 

Three days and you really hope he forgot about it. 

You woke up before he did, which is really no surprise since he was wasted beyond reason last night, and retrieved your glasses from next to his. 

For the last three days you haven’t really left your room. Dave doesn’t come for you, which is good because you have been working on not actually thinking about Dave because last time you did that too much you ended up talking him into getting drunk then forcing yourself on him.

Holy shit you suck. 

But he doesn’t remember, he can’t, if he hasn’t done anything about it now he won’t, and even if he thinks it was a dream it’s not like he’s going to talk to you about it. That would make it seem like he’s fucked up.

Which is the most unfair thing you could have managed to do, go you, pushing your insecurities onto him because you don’t know how to deal with being in dokis with your older brother, the dude who raised you, an icon to the masses and the guy that pulled the two of you out of poverty to live the life of the perpetually glamorous. 

—-

It’s been three weeks.

And it’s a little worrying to you because you knew you had mild OCD but this whole measuring time in threes thing is kind of getting to you.

He has to know, he has to remember, because he won’t look you in the eye and that’s shit because all you want to do is apologize but that would mean actually bringing it up and talking about it and fuck that you’d rather go through this prancing around than actual hell. Because seeing that look on his face, that look of distraught disgust, that might actually kill you. 

You’d be fine dealing with this stupid rift the two of you have going than actually bringing up the god damn elephant in the room because the elephant is more likely to smash you to bits than the oppressive silence is.

But Dave was never a guy for silences.

"Hey, Dirk?"

You grunt a response over your shoulder. It is robot time, you are dealing with really delicate machinery and a god damn welder’s torch and he can kindly fuck off because come on robots. 

"Are we actually going to avoid this shit forever or what?" You can feel him looking over your shoulder and jesus shit you are trying to deal with things and that means an epic fuckton of distraction and he is not helping.

"Don’t know what you’re talkin’ bout, bro." You have a screw in your mouth and you’re working on tightening this bolt and the stupid thing is stripped to hell and the god damn wrench keeps slipping in your hand because your palms are suddenly really sweaty and you really fucking wish he would just back off because you could deal with being a lowly sack of shit without him pointing it out, thanks.

"So we’re going to totally avoid that your tongue was in my mouth." 

The wrench completely slips and clatters about a foot from where you are and you hate everything so much.

"That was the initial plan, yeah." 

"Dirk."

"What." 

"Roof, ten minutes."

No, fuck no, fucking dick shits no you are not dealing with this.

You tell Dave as much.

"Then what the fuck do you want to do? Because you refuse to talk about it and I kind of get why but this isn’t something that you can just sweep under like something you miscalculated, you dick. You cannot bunt the football and expect the goalie to get the homerun."

"That didn’t make any fucking sense."

"Yeah, well, that’s where I’m at right now, dude."

Your silence drags on, and it’s not on purpose, you just don’t have a single fucking thing to say.

He sighs, “I know you’re confused-"

"Whoa whoa whoa no, do not fucking tell me I’m just some hormonal teenager, you dick." You whirl on him, actually look at him, and it strikes you how fucking small he looks right now. 

"It’s just some misplaced affection-"

"No it’s not!" And it should bother you that you’re yelling, but it doesn’t, and you should be bothered by that, too, but you’re not. “This isn’t some weird daddy issue, this isn’t me being a heartbroken little punk and looking for the first sign of affection I can get. I fucking love you, okay? Jesus christ, you wanted me to talk, there it is." You’re breathing hard and so is he and you hope to fucking god the stinging in your eyes isn’t tears because you don’t think you’d be able to stand it if he saw you cry over this.

"Dirk," you want to tell him to stop saying your name like it’s going to break, like it’s something gentle in his mouth and it will shatter on his lips. But you kind of think it will. You don’t feel fragile, you just feel weak.

"Give me a chance." It’s a stupid demand, one you hadn’t anticipated on making, and it shows in his face that he wasn’t expecting it either.

His entire demeanor softens. “Dirk, you know I can’t do that."

"Why not? We’re not hurting anything, no one will find out, it’ll be fucking easy." Your words are near manic and you’re murmuring and shit the stinging was tears congratulations you have leveled up you are now a Pathetic Weeniepants look at all the boonbucks. 

"I can’t do that to you." He looks heartbroken and you hate it but he didn’t say no, he didn’t say that you couldn’t or shouldn’t or won’t. 

"You want to, though." And you hope to god it’s true.

"Shit, li’l man," he breaks himself off and you chance stepping closer to him. 

The silence is heavy, heavier than the avoidance and the pussy-footing around and heavier than you were on his lap that day.

You kiss him.

You nearly sob when he kisses back.


End file.
